God Loves You, Everyone Else Thinks You're a Moron
by Dollar Short
Summary: Dean and Bobby get some bad news. Sam does something drastic and Castiel spends a lot of time looking pained. Set some time after 'Good God, Y'all'.
1. Chapter 1

**God Loves You...**

**Everyone Else Thinks You're a Moron.**

**S s S s S**

_Disclaimer: They're not mine. Gosh darn it. Set before "The End" and therefore will no doubt take an AU route to get to where it's going. Wherever that is. Not a death story. As if. _

**S s S s S**

It had been two months, six days and eleven hours since Dean had last seen his brother. Not that he was keeping track. God was not in his heaven and Lucifer was leading them a merry dance.

"Penny for 'em." Bobby rolled across the kitchen floor, running over Castiel's foot in the process, the angel leapt backwards suppressing a pained yelp and Bobby shot him a surly smile. "Oops."

Dean dropped the pendulum he had been half heartedly swinging over a faded and yellowed map.

"This isn't working. If there's a pattern to these attacks, I'm not seeing it." Dean stretched, locking his fingers together and reaching for the ceiling, his vertebrae cracking in loud succession. "We can't even be sure if it's Lucifer and his minions' handiwork, anyway." He glared despondently at the map, dropped his hands with a loud sigh and flicked the crystal pendant across the table. Bobby caught it as it tumbled off the edge.

"Don't be bitching at me. Your heavenly host here is the one who fingered the culprit. Hey," Bobby spun his wheelchair around, "why are you still here anyway? I though you were off God-hunting again."

Castiel looked grave; a thoughtful expression on his face that Dean always thought made him look constipated. "My Father is being elusive. I can only hope that it is part of his plan."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I had one like that. Screwed me over to the point I don't know which way's up anymore. Bastard," he added with some affection.

Castiel shifted uncomfortably as if to confirm Dean's suspicions. "I thought that finding out why Lucifer is sacrificing these people and burning their temples might help us understand his plan. And I am perfectly aware of which direction up is in." He waved a finger heavenward.

"Plan? What is there to understand about world domination and wiping out humanity? I should introduce you to some James Bond movies. Might give you an insight into the evil super villain routine," Dean offered. "You know, Satan ain't all that original when you get down to it. Bet he doesn't even feed people to blood thirsty sharks. It would make this end of times crapshoot so much more entertaining."

Castiel looked perturbed his eyes met Bobby's, who shrugged and raising his forefinger circled it suggestively at his temple.

"I saw that." Dean yawned and wondered for the millionth time where Sam was, and what he was doing.

"You should call him." Bobby rolled backwards until he was level with Dean. "Because if I have to keep looking at that miserable moping face any longer I am going to shove this goddamn chair off the nearest cliff. With you in it. Now give me that freaking map." Bobby grabbed the parchment from the table, stuck it between his teeth and hands on wheels trundled away to the living room.

Castiel gazed after him, cocking his head. "I find it hard to keep up with his changing emotions. Is it because he can no longer use his legs?"

"Not so much. Always had more mood swings than a roomful of premenstrual teenagers has our Bobby. God bless him. Wherever the fuck_ he _is." Dean yawned again. After a promising start the apocalypse was proving to be something of a bore, even an appearance by Zachariah and his oily crew would a least provide some entertainment. There were some distinct disadvantages to being hidden from the omnipresent view of so many ethereal nosy parkers.

"Dean, it grieves me greatly to hear you use those profanities when talking about our Father." Castiel was starting to fidget and despite his apparent censure of Dean's words seemed more interested in what was going on outside the kitchen window.

"No shit." Dean left the table. "You're starting to twitch. Come on, you can't find God, Lucifer's playing 'Where's Waldo?' and I feel like mixing it up. Sitting here isn't going to help any. There was something on the local news last night about the increase of lice infestations in schools. Could be a sign of something."

"Lice?" Castiel glanced sideways.

"Yeah, you know. Bugs, nasty itchy little devils. Sam was always picking them up from class and I would always end up with nit duty." Dean shuddered, "I hate them. Microscopic fuckers." He looked hopefully at the angel, who edged away from him.

"I was unaware that such things were a portent of the arrival of Lucifer."

"What? They totally are. I looked it up. Biblical plagues. Apparently camels going belly up are another one. We should probably check out any zoos, see if their dromedaries are still up and running."

"Dean." Castiel sighed and then stretched forward, as if trying to catch a glimpse of something through the smudged glass.

"Yeah."

"Those are plagues unleashed by the wrath of God. They are not of Lucifer's hand."

"So God's a dick too. Nice." Dean stuck his hands in his pocket and waited to be chastised. Castiel ignored him, he kept quiet for a few seconds but the angel's attention was firmly fixed elsewhere. Dean sighed, getting a rise out of angels used to be so easy.

"Come on Cas…"

"There is an old green truck outside the gates. Is it anybody you or Bobby know?"

Dean peered worriedly over the angel's shoulder. "Damn. We're not expecting any visitors." He turned and yelled into the next room, "Bobby, heads up. We've got uninvited guests. Get those wheels spinning."

A low mumble of expletives drifted across the kitchen. Castiel looked as if his intestinal troubles were making themselves known again. Smothering a grin, Dean tucked his gun into the back of his pants and pulled open the kitchen door. Action of some sort at last, he hoped.

"Stay loose," he advised Castiel, who frowned back at him and then leaned with exaggerated nonchalance against the kitchen sink.

Dean trod carefully around the house and down the driveway toward the truck. A man was climbing from the driver's side, around Bobby's age and height, twice as round, his plaid jacket straining at its buttons. He was fiddling with a small piece of paper and squinting at the house.

"What can I do for you, buddy? This is private property." Dean braced his legs and with crossed arms did his best to look intimidating. He needn't have bothered, the man jumped, visibly startled and Dean relaxed minutely, he hadn't even been noticed by their visitor. Probably not a threat. Definitely not a hunter and he'd never known demons to pick vessels quite so portly.

"I'm looking for Bobby Singer." The man came up to the padlocked gate and crinkled the paper at Dean.

"You've found him."

"Oh." The man looked a little flustered and then collecting himself looked Dean straight in the eye, "I was told he was in a wheelchair."

"It's a miracle," Dean smiled tightly.

"It's okay Dean. I'll handle this." Bobby's voice came from behind him. "I'm Singer. Do I know you?" Bobby stopped at his side, pulling back on the wheel rims and catching Dean's ankle with one of the foot plates.

"Ow. That thing should be a registered weapon." Dean hopped away, keeping his eyes on their visitor.

"Cry me a river," Bobby growled. "Yes?" He barked at the man peering in through the crisscrossed wires.

The man's uncertain gaze shifted between them and he cleared his throat nervously. "My name's Ed Baines and I've got a message for you. I promised I'd deliver it. And, well, I owe the guy so... " He stopped and shook his head, "This is harder than I thought."

Dean found himself tensing and almost of its own accord his hand came to rest on the gun at the small of his back. Bad news, he could smell it on the air. Bobby seemed to sense it too, his hands gripping his chair tightly as he propelled himself forward.

"Spit it out man, I ain't got all day."

Baines cleared his throat. "I promised him I'd tell you what happened and that he's sorry,' he paused and then carried on, only his voice was quieter and Dean caught a note of genuine sorrow in it. "I promised I'd let you know. That Sam Winchester died."

...


	2. Chapter 2

**God Loves You…**

**Everyone Else Thinks You're a Moron.**

**Chapter 2**

**S s S s S**

Baines froze in place, blinking rapidly down the gun barrel holding steady under his nose. Dean pressed up against the opposite side of the fence, mute and furious, Baines slowly raised his hands and took a small step back, his face neutral and not nearly scared enough in Dean's opinion.

"You stay right there, Mr. Baines," he snapped, because if there was one thing he couldn't stand it was liars, so much so that shooting someone who obviously was one, seemed an effective way of discouraging the practice. Baines nodded and kept still. There was a sudden flurry of movement from the direction of the truck and a large black and tan dog appeared at Baines' side, raising its head it let out one loud booming bark.

"Shut it, pooch," Dean waved his gun and the dog howled, wagging its tail furiously and positioning itself between Baines and the fence.

"Trixie, down girl," Baines soothed, although Dean couldn't detect an awful lot of enthusiasm in the command. The dog rumbled at him. Great, Bobby would have his hide if he shot the dog.

"Don't be an idiot Dean; give the guy a chance to explain himself before you plug him full of holes. He didn't have to come here, and leave the mutt alone." Bobby huffed and wheeled himself up to the gate reaching up awkwardly to free the padlock. "Get in here;" he gestured to Baines, "he won't shoot you, unless he has good reason to. Does he?" Bobby pushed on the gate and before Dean could react, the dog shot forward, ears flying and teeth bared. Dean tightened his finger on the trigger.

"Trixie. Sit," Bobby ordered and to Dean's astonishment, the dog skidded to halt and parked its rump in front of Bobby, gazed fixed expectantly. Baines shuffled through and stood behind them, trying to keep his bulk shielded by the man and his chair.

"No reason to shoot me, none at all." Baines assured him shaking his head vigorously, jowls wobbling and his eyes following the path of the gun as Dean let it drop to his side.

"Bobby..." Dean started, knowing that it was now of out his hands. Not his house, not his rules.

"Stow it. Now give me a hand and get me back to house and we can hear what this gentleman has to say. Come on, Trixie." Bobby clucked his tongue. "Nice dog. Rottweiler?"

"Er, thanks, yeah. Lab cross." said Baines following carefully, as Dean grabbed the back of the wheelchair and pushed Bobby back to the house, his gun digging in his back, the subtle pressure of metal against his skin an anchor for his simmering anger.

Castiel was still waiting by the kitchen sink as they filed into the kitchen. Trixie bounded across the room woofing enthusiastically as the angel shrank back, shuffling along until the dog had herded him successfully into the corner. She sat panting happily and snuffling at his coat, leaving at shiny trail of drool across the fabric. Castiel clutched his coat to him, shuddering in distaste as his fingers met with the warm saliva.

Baines sat down at the table and reluctantly accepted the beer offered to him. Bobby pulled up to the table and pretended not to watch as their guest took a nervous sip of alcohol with no apparent ill effects.

"Dean," Castiel's voice was strained as he huddled in on himself. "Please tell this animal I have nothing it wants."

"It's one of God's creatures, ain't it, just like you. Got more sense than most of his other creations ever seem to have," Bobby grunted, leveling a disapproving glare at Castiel before his face morphed into an encouraging smile and he clicked his fingers. "Trixie," he cooed and the dog trotted over and sat between him and Baines. They both reached out to scratch behind an ear.

"Sorry about the welcoming committee, but that's not the kind of news you expect to hear from some stranger on your porch, so to speak. Sam's family. To all of us."

Baines wiped his mouth on a sleeve, fingers twitching. "It's okay Mr. Singer. I am the bearer of bad news. It's not the first time."

Dean, who was pacing restlessly, slapped a hand on the table. "So this is something you do a lot, huh? Go round telling people their friends and family are dead? I bet you're real popular at parties." Trixie barked at the noise.

"Dean!" Bobby snapped, "Give the man some space." Dean stalked away, joining a befuddled Castiel, propping himself up against the kitchen counter.

"I used to be a cop. I'm retired now but I've knocked on too many doors in the past."

"Cop. It figures, I guess the donut jokes just make themselves." Dean interrupted and glared pointedly at Baines and his plaid covered girth.

Bobby growled and Trixie raised a paw to his lap.

"Donuts?" Castiel spoke up, "You are inordinately fond of those fried cakes. What do they have to do with your brother?"

"Brother? Sam never mentioned having a brother." Baines looked genuinely surprised and Dean wondered why he suddenly felt sick. A tense silence reigned for a few seconds.

"Dean," Bobby's voice dropped to a gentle whisper, "Sit down kid, before you hurt yourself."

Too late for that, Dean thought as he dragged a chair noisily across the floor and slumped down at the table.

"Ed, right? So tell me. How do you know my brother's dead?" He asked wearily, because he wasn't sure if he really wanted to know, because if Sam was dead he should have known, should have felt it and if nothing else he should have been there and not have left his brother to draw his last breath surrounded by strangers.

Baines reached out a hand and then thinking better of it, withdrew it. "I'm sorry. I was there. Your brother saved my life and my partner's too. I, I think that maybe…" Baines stopped and looked around, Bobby inclined his head and Dean shrugged. "Look I don't want to say the wrong thing or offend, but… I was a cop and I've met all sorts in my time and Sam, you know, I've seen more than a couple of kids like that."

"Like what?" Dean asked softly and he knew what the man was going to say, he'd seen it himself. In his brother and in the mirror.

"Hurting. Lost. I got the feeling he didn't that much care what happened to him. I tried to stop him, but he was bound and determined."

"Sounds like Sammy. You'd better start at the beginning." Dean said blandly, the weight of too many tangled emotions impossible to even try to express.

"I'm a partner in a small antiques business. Bric-a- brack, collectibles…"

S s S s S

It had been two months, one day and eight hours since Sam had last seen his brother. He knew this because he had been keeping track.

He was having a bad day. He was having a bad week and with little effort the extrapolation extended to the undeniable fact that Sam was having a bad life.

Lucifer's meat suit. Wasn't that nice? He was surprised at his own surprise. Any one with any common sense would have seen it coming by the time they got to kindergarten. He supposed there might be someone who was worse off than he was, but the chain had to end somewhere, didn't it? Someone on the planet had to be at the bottom of the pile, that guy, that person who there was no one worse off than. Worse things happen at sea; he thought and tried to imagine Lucifer with a tri-cornered pirate hat. It did nothing to improve his mood.

His first instinct had been to call Dean but by the time he had pulled out his phone the doubts had started. He wasn't that sure that his brother would even care; he had enough problems of his own to deal with. It just proved what Dean had said all along. His little brother was a freak of the worst kind. Sam had turned off his phone and gone for a walk.

It was a bright and breezy day, a blue sky dotted with drifting fluffy clouds. Yellow and orange leaves skipped across the sidewalk and tumbled into the gutter, every now and then a passing car would sent them fluttering into the air, decorating the street with color and movement.

Sam sat on a park bench and watched the world go by; there was, after all, the distinct possibility that it could end at any given moment. A large reddish orange sycamore leaf danced through the air towards him and he reached out instinctively to grab it.

"Catch a leaf, make a wish," he murmured. "I wish I could make it all right." He opened his palm; the leaf trembled and was snatched away by the wind, spinning over the grass to mingle with its own kind.

Across the road the business day was starting, Sam watched idly as a store owner unlocked his door and set about arranging window displays and lining up his wares on the sidewalk. It was a small antique store, definitely aimed at the lower end of the market. Why would anyone want other people's junk? Sam pondered. A man with a hefty beer gut was putting something front and center of the window. Sam sat forward, trying to get a better view. It was a face, no; Sam was on his feet, jogging across the street, not a face. What was that? It was on a tall pedestal, empty eye sockets facing outward. It was a horned mask, Sam realized, old and ragged and stained with age. It had a hooked nose and a fixed grin, closed mouthed and too wide, with knotted hair sewn around the face and horns. The hair looked human, the mask did not. Sam found himself pressed to the window, his breath clouding the glass in ragged pants. It both repulsed and attracted him. That is was evil, he knew without a doubt.

"Can I help you?" Startled, Sam looked up to find the owner regarding him with a cold and wary eye.

…


End file.
